Your Darija teacher writes back in your language.

I teach the Darija you hear in the street, not the one in textbooks. We start speaking in the first ten minutes and build from there — your mistakes are the lesson plan.

I have taught Arabic in Fès for twenty years, and Darija for the last eight. Slow and steady is a method, not an apology.

Fès, and I love the old city as a classroom. Half my lessons end up being about a street name.

Grew up between Tétouan and Málaga, so switching languages mid-sentence is my normal. Lessons are lively, and there is always a plan.

Agadir, Amazigh household, and a teaching diploma that taught me to plan. My lessons have a shape, and you always leave with something written down.

Fès. I teach the Darija of the old city and the one people actually text each other — they are not the same, and you will want both.

Casablanca. I like the hard parts — the sounds that do not exist in your language, the words that refuse to translate. We work on them early.

Fès. I have been teaching longer than some of my students have been alive, and I have never met one who could not learn.

Agadir. Amazigh and Darija both from childhood, and a long habit of explaining one through the other.

Essaouira. I teach with music — Gnawa first, then whatever you like. It fixes rhythm and pronunciation faster than drills.

I teach the Darija of the kitchen, the phone call and the neighbour — the language that fills an ordinary day in Salé.

From Tiznit, so Tamazight and Darija have both been mine since childhood. I can show you where the two touch — it explains a lot.

Nador, so Spanish and Tamazight are part of my everyday. I use both to build bridges into Darija.

Taroudant. Tamazight at home, Darija in the street, and I can show you how they fit together.

Safi. Unhurried, thorough, and a firm believer in writing things down. My students keep their notebooks for years.